


Bad Company

by PaintedYertle



Category: Monster High
Genre: Gen, Yuletide 2016, Zombie biting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedYertle/pseuds/PaintedYertle
Summary: This tomb was Ghoulia’s home long before she befriended Moanica. The moment Moanica stepped in, she owned it without negotiation. In that same manner that’s how she and Ghoulia became…equals. It began when she took her on shopping trips to replace the unintentional trend of tattered and dirty clothes on zombies. Ghoulia thought the outside world was not meant for her, since it was owned by normal people – humans – and not to her.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everchangingmuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everchangingmuse/gifts).



> Recipient said I could pick either original or WtMH canon, so I decided to combine both. Also wanted to do a character piece for Ghoulia anyway and was wondering where the heck she was during that entire movie. Hoping she wasn't booted out of the canon (even if I love Moanica, that darling extremist). Hoping it's close to what you like ^_^  
> Also thanks to my beta for being able to help at the last second.

            Ghoulia had only one true-blue best friend. But as she watched outside the store as her friend screeched at the manager in her first language, it proved she was just as good at showing off her best fiend side. It was the first time Ghoulia had seen anyone try to tell Moanica what to do.

            The manager gripped Moanica’s arm and shoved her out the front door, making her fall at Ghoulia’s feet. Ghoulia did not care for how the humans in the store were looking at her either, so she turned her back on them to help her friend instead. When she offered her hand, Moanica gritted her fangs and slapped it away.

            Moanica rose up from the ground and stormed away. Ghoulia tried her best to keep up with her pace. As much as she wanted to say something Ghoulia was as bad with her words as she was with her coordination. With the wonky curve in her back and inverted feet she was slowed down enough as is. She glanced at the fishnets covering her palms, then at Moanica’s sharpened nails. Moanica was far from the type to be easily calmed down or cheered up. Ghoulia could only moan.

            One would think two zombie girls would share something in common, but aside from the degenerative hivemind connecting them all, there wasn’t much. Complications arise when you choose to live with your…how could she define their relationship? Friends? Comrades? Companions? Tomb-mates?

            “Some help you were,” Moanica said to Ghoulia, “And you dare call yourself my equal.”

            Equal, yes! That was a fitting word for it. Moanica was born zombie while Ghoulia was bitten. Moanica could catch up with anyone while Ghoulia was slower and hesitant. Moanica’s favorite hobby was hunting, poisoning the normies into the monsters they feared from the inside out, and Ghoulia liked beating her own high score. But the way Ghoulia saw it, two wild colors mixing together just create more vivid shades of gray.

            The next store the girls chose to shop at had only a handful of human beings. Most were girls they assumed to be their age, but the rest were parents with cautious stares they tried to hide. The teens on the other hand were not so subtle in how they examined the two. Moanica must have noticed, but did not seemed to care. She only hurried to the dressing rooms.

            “Don’t ask me to pick out your clothes for you,” said Moanica, “I’m not your mother.”

            Ghoulia would not know what her mother would want for her, given her lack of memory from her pre-bitten life.

            Once Ghoulia had her clothes together she picked an empty dressing room to examine herself in the mirror. It had been a long time. She pushed her long hair back with a green headband, so that way she could always see herself the way she wanted to. The first thing she saw was her bad posture. It did not bother her, but why did Moanica’s body get to stiffen and contort in all different directions only when she wanted it to? The tall sneakers reaching her knees hid the bite located on the back of her leg. It was shaped like two bumpy crescent moons. Her right eye closed, then her left.

            When Ghoulia showed her outfit to Moanica (a shirt with cherries printed all over it, a belt with a piano key design, zipper shaped earrings), the response was “Well, it _looks_ like you dressed yourself.”

            Ghoulia looked over Moanica’s outfit, consisting of her paint-splattered jeans and jacket covered in skulls on green fire, but made no comment, because she couldn’t. Either way, Moanica paid for the outfit for her. For once the cashier’s eyes were caught by her brain-shaped purse and not the bloodless skin, but Ghoulia could not help but notice the bullet holes in the fabric too.

            It was near dark by the time the girls went home. Just a sliver of red on the horizon from the sun leaving its warmth behind on the cooling graveyard. The graveyard was uninhabited by the living at this time. Humans visited often but usually kept to themselves. Ghoulia would encourage Moanica not to bother those that don’t bother you back. The door to Moanica and Ghoulia’s stone tomb was wide open. The inside was clean and cold. This was a good thing, since two were having company over that night.

            There was already one other monster there with them. He was weak and lying on his back where the stone walls met. Ghoulia adjusted her glasses, noting how different he looked from before they left. Thinner, weaker, more pale. The sweater he was wearing had an insignia from the nearest private school on it. His eyes were imitating Moanica’s glow, only with a red hue instead of blue and yet somehow deprived of fire. It caused Ghoulia to fear for rather than of him.

            At the same time, the boy’s presence made her more timid than usual. There was a _cute boy_ in her home! Ghoulia made an attempt to let him feel welcome by offering him her comics. Human boys enjoy comics and video games too, don’t they? She couldn’t be sure, but this one didn’t seem to care.

            So she instead confined herself to playing a game on her phone, while Moanica laid down on the ground, staring at the ceiling, conflict waging in the violent glow of her irises. That righteousness in the natural light in her eyes, the tense contortion in her movements she made to intimidate others. Ghoulia found it in the interest for all involved to let that beast die on it’s own.

            Ghoulia could not imagine what it was like to bite a person. Moanica had fangs while her teeth were straight and crooked all at once. Could she even break the skin? She was _so_ totally not envious.

            This tomb was Ghoulia’s home long before she befriended Moanica. The moment Moanica stepped in, she owned it without negotiation. In that same manner that’s how she and Ghoulia became…equals. It began when she took her on shopping trips to replace the unintentional trend of tattered and dirty clothes on zombies. Ghoulia thought the outside world was not meant for her, since it was owned by normal people – humans – and not to her.

            Later, when Ghoulia looked up from her device, Moanica had risen from where she was sitting. She was staring out the tomb’s opening. Upon removing her deadphones Ghoulia could hear voices in the distance. From where they were watching the warm sun was gone and it was only blackness outside, not even enough to make out the outlines of the gravestones. Tonight this pack of normies were unapologetically loud enough to reach where they were standing.

            From the sounds they could make out they were all males, and there were many of them. Moanica steadily walked down the steps of the tomb towards the noise. She was moving more delicacy than Ghoulia was used to seeing. That’s when a small orange light flickered on, lighting a cigarette for one of the boys, and went out. That’s when Moanica ran.

            Ghoulia let out a sound and reached out for her but was ignored. There was no point to going after Moanica when she was faster than any zombie or human.

            There was less noise than Ghoulia expected. A few yelps, but it was no louder than the dead grass crunching beneath their feet when they ran to their cars. Ghoulia went out but her slow movements and some steep hills made it all the more difficult. By the time she managed to find them there were few left behind. He was lying on the ground, his designer jeans filthy from a struggle. There was a bite embedded on his hand.

            “Hey look Ghoulia,” said Moanica, pointing to the boy on the ground, “We made a new friend.”

            People were going to look for him, meaning more friends were to come.

            Above everything, Moanica had never been so happy. New members of their group (family? Friends? Pawns? Army?) arrived one by one, all of them teen boys. After a more than a dozen the tomb became too crowded for all of them to share. An assortment of red and blue eyes Ghoulia did not share hovered around her all day and night. Ghoulia considered this a good enough reason to stop making new friends that were human once, but Moanica wouldn’t have it.

            Instead the front gates of the cemetery remained locked. It led to an entertaining weekend and a victory for the zombie side.

            The zombie boys (or Zomboys, a title that made Ghoulia giggle and Moanica roll her eyes) became Moanica’s entourage and protectors. She didn’t spend as much time with Ghoulia as much as she used to, but according to her that wasn’t her fault. The graveyard was going through a “redecorating process”, leaving everything, the painting, some electrical wiring for lighting, and even some smoke machines (for dramatic effect, _DUH_ ) was left up to Ghoulia’s intelligence.

            “You have too much work to do, muñeca! Wouldn’t want to get in your way.” Moanica would say.

            Moanica would return from shopping with items but no shopping bags. Ghoulia couldn’t help but notice the price tags were still attached. One of them was a can containing glow-in-the dark paint.

            One Zomboy was lent to Ghoulia to keep the ladder still and hand her supplies while she decorated the tombs. He wore a jersey from his previous school. One of his eyes had veered off to the side. She couldn’t help but express her woes to him, if anyone. Was it fair that Moanica had all of the fun while she was left with all the work?

            “Hnnnnngh,” the Zomboy, nicknamed Slo-Mo, replied.

            Ghoulia knew that, obviously, but Moanica was her friend and friends treat each other equal. At least, that’s what Ghoulia guessed.

            “Ughghghnnnnnnn,” Ghoulia bit her blackened nails (it was natural so there was no need to paint them) at Slo-Mo’s excellent rebuttal. Was getting nice things and stealing from the humans selfish, even when those normies weren’t nice back to them?

            “Bheeeeeguh” Correct, two wrongs indeed don’t make a right. Ghoulia felt somewhat ashamed as she tucked a hair away behind her ear.

            From here on the ladder, her eyes had a high view of the rows of tombstones. So many rows, becoming uneven from how they were pushed around, but such small amount of land compared to the rest of what the world had. What would they even do with all this space? And if she didn’t have this space, where else could she go?

            Moanica appeared satisfied with the paint job, a rare thing for her to express. Then she took Ghoulia on a walk on the graveyard’s path, just her and no Zomboys. By this time of year the leaves were falling down. With no one tending to the land they were left on the land in colorful mounds. It was bad for boots, but good for scenery. Also good for knowing if someone is behind you.

            They stopped at one tombstone in particular, the engraved date showing it was meant for a girl in her late teens. By doing the math in head Ghoulia found out it must be close to their perceived age. Moanica sat cross-legged on top of it.

            “Okay Ghoulia,” said Moanica, “We’re going to solve your little biting problem.”

            A wind forced its way over them, causing more bright leaves to pass overhead. Ghoulia pressed her fingers together, letting out her best “um…”

            “You seem to have trouble with live bait,” Moanica continued, “This is not the worst problem to have. Not unsolvable. It only requires practice.” She made a sweeping gesture to the many, many rows of stones. So far Moanica had only bitten boys, it would be nice to have a ghoulfriend around, but still… Ghoulia took a step back and made a movement she knew everyone could understand. She shook her head no.

            Moanica’s grin toppled down. She jumped down from where she sat and stormed too close to Ghoulia’s level. “What more do I have to do?” Ghoulia looked down at the ground to avoid her equal’s eyes. “Why am I the only one who does all the work around here! I usurped the land, I made you go outside, I paid for your oufit, and you won’t even bite one normie for me?!”

            Ghoulia clasped her hands together. None of the boys recall the pain from their bites, neither does Ghoulia, but she imagined the pain visible on the faces of their loved ones. She did not want to inflict any kind of pain, even the kind easiest to turn away from. But Ghoulia could not articulate a single word of that. So she shook her head again.

            This caused Moanica to hover closer. The two were near the same height but the other girl was more capable of holding her head up high. Those eyes were intimidating enough to feel bigger. Ghoulia stepped back.

            “So, what, do you feel sympathy for them? The ones who shunned you and trapped you here? The ones who wish you weren’t just a half-dead ghoul?!” The back of Ghoulia’s legs hit a stone and could not step back any further. She moaned and shook her head again. “Then _what_?! Why do you refuse to do the one thing you were meant to do?!” Her claws came out and jabbed at Ghoulia’s chest. “Will you allow them to _hurt_ and _hunt_ you until you are a _trophy_ on their _walls_? _Will you_?”

            Ghoulia screamed. She released a shriek she never knew she was able to release. Her anger pushed her forward. For once they were no words to translate. By the time she realized she had pushed Moanica back, her vocal chords were rattling.

            The sun was setting. Now Moanica’s eyes were blue fire once again. “Get out. If you don’t appreciate how I run things go somewhere else!” she made an exaggerated point to the gate far away at the other end of the graveyard.

            When Ghoulia left on the windy pathway, the boys did not even glance in her direction.

            The dark streets were a separate kind of an uncomfortable. The cold she could handle. It was how she was built. Her graveyard had a place to rest in every place she looked. Here was dangerous for everyone, but especially for Ghouls. But judging by the colorful decorations from one house to another, some holiday must be approaching. The one thing she took with her was her phone, but with no one to contact it had little use. She had those she followed on social media, but that was used mostly to follow updates in the Ghoul community. Her evening was spent wandering from the one place to another until there were to other people about, and when the normies were watching even more she moved on. She finally took refuge in what she considered her second home: a comic book store.

            The door was unlocked, so she pushed it open and walked in. Ghoulia did not know what time of day it was, but no person was in the store. There were a few series on the shelf she recognized. Because of what little money she had there was no series she kept up with. The industry was changing and progressing more every time Ghoulia had a chance to look at it again. She picked up a cover with a woman superheroine on it. See, she has a twisted spine just like Ghoulia! Oh wait, that’s the artwork’s fault…

            Before she could search any further, an employee walked out from the back room. The first thing she noticed about him (aside from his wordless stares; Ghoulia was used to those) was his Walking Dead t-shirt. Next was the sign in the room behind him. “ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE: COMBAT AND SURVIVAL”.

            “My time has come…” He whispered. The comic shop employee rushed back through the door. This was Ghoulia’s cue to get the heck out of there.

            It was Autumn out here too. The holiday and festivities were coming into effect. Painted skeletons. Costumes. Some kind of festival. If Ghoulia played her cards right she may be able to fit in with them. The festival had crowds. People weren’t staring at her for once, as they were in costume too. Some were dressed as zombies, though Ghoulia immediately caught on, no matter how slow they forced themselves to walk.

            She stopped at a face-painting stand. The woman working there seemed very nice, speaking of preparing for the spirits meant to visit that very night. Really, spirits? Ghoulia knew of some spirits, ones she followed over social media, but none in real life. There was one place in town above everything else that souls should be attracted to, and Ghoulia knew it better than everyone.

            Of course she said none of this out loud and the woman took kindly to her. When she stood up to help another customer, she left her paints on the table. They tempted her. When she took them, she remembered how she learned from the best.

            Ghoulia came to the conclusion that there wasn’t a place for her here. She couldn’t find that place at the moment. So she returned to the place she was used to, where Moanica was. However, when Ghoulia made it back through the gates, no living thing was there waiting for her.

            The tomb decorated with neon lights and glow in the dark paint was empty, not just of its original occupant. A few of the tombstones had holes in the ground before them with nothing in them. The land they fought for was laid barren. She became worried. Was everything okay or were Moanica and the Zomboys taking their time on a shopping trip? Or did Moanica simply just lose her reason to stay?

            Outside the walls were voices and life. That world suddenly felt bigger than it was before.

            To pass the time, Ghoulia painted her face for the day in the way that one human showed her. It was white paint with black circles underneath her eyes and lines on her lips to resemble teeth. The sun set, the graveyard dimmed into darkness, and Moanica nor the boys returned. No spirits visited either. No souls were left in this place, only the cold. Ghoulia sighed.

            It had been a long few weeks before Moanica returned. When she did, half of the Zomboys were gone. Moanica’s response was to where they were was

            “The educational system is corrupt. So is politics.”

            She had a backpack filled with school supplies. It was pink of course, covered in a brain synapse design. It made it chic. Moanica resigned herself to the tomb, not wanting to be bothered. Ghoulia went back to what she was used to, cleaning up and distractions on the internet.

            A celebrity, a pop star Ghoulia had only vaguely known, revealed herself as a ghoul ghost. The public responded with a mixed reaction, which she saw over the course from both sides of the argument. The pop star advocated for her school, a sanctuary for ghouls and monsters alike named Monster High. The world watched as a previously unknown community gained a voice. Another teen ghost journalist made a deeply personal editorial relating to her experiences and kept relevant updates on her blog. The brochure from Monster High displayed two undead ghouls: the daughter of the school’s vampire founder and a green girl in stitches. Ghoulia could tell neither of them were zombies. But it was the first time in Ghoulia’s undead life she saw herself in someone else. Were there any other zombie ghouls having the same troubles as her? Were there other ghouls out here that close to her?

            Moanica called it a waste of time, hinting at where she and the boys had been. Any anger Moanica had was taken out on the remaining defenseless Zomboys or the fresh friends she pulled from the ground. She stole enough money from them and that school to keep up the shopping trips. Fashion appeared to be the one thing Moanica genuinely loved, next to winning and retribution. That must be a teen thing.

            “It’s not equal if we settle to their terms,” said Moanica, which Ghoulia considered more than hypocritical.

            The location was not difficult to decipher, at least not to anyone with brains. That’s when Ghoulia used that working brain of her own to think for herself. Deciding to take Moanica’s backpack and leave was a quick decision, between the witching hour and sunrise. When no one was awake or aware.

            As Ghoulia walked out regret was compelling her back, but the new place for her pushed her forward.


End file.
